


when the dust settles

by romanoff



Series: Post-Infinity War Snippets [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Coping, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Heavy Angst, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, M/M, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Team Bonding, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-29 04:30:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14465055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanoff/pseuds/romanoff
Summary: What’s left of the Avengers regroup and offer each other some much needed support.





	when the dust settles

**Author's Note:**

> yikes
> 
> spoilers for iw

Tony lies awake.  
   
They’ve moved cots down into what used to be the throne room, so they can be together. Ostensibly so if there’s a threat – there won’t be, half the universe is dead – they have strength of numbers.  
   
There’s a trial, Steve told him, to become King of Wakanda. You’re supposed to beat the last king in combat. Kinky. Of course, that’s gone now. No one seems to have the appetite. The ruling of the country is in the hands of a teenage girl and a man named M’Baku. They won’t use the throne room. Not until their king is returned.  
   
Bruce and Natasha are talking. Imagine, they still have each other. What luck, what joy. Who does Tony have? What’s left?  
   
Rhodey. He’s still alive, flesh and blood and family. Happy is somewhere, in New York, building a shrine for Pepper’s loss out of the things she left behind. He has this team, still, somehow. The first ones, the last ones.  
   
He has Steve.  
   
He turns his head. Steve is lying on his front, hands pillowed beneath his cheek. There’s a machinegun by his hands for easy access, but Tony has never known him to use a gun. Barnes’ probably. Tony ignores the stupid, ineffectual, spike of jealousy. Steve chose Barnes over Tony. Tony chose Pepper over Steve.  
   
They both got what they deserved in the end.  
   
He turns back to the ceiling. Ornate. All this knowledge, all this wealth, locked up here in a country smaller than the state of New York. What would Tony do? Would he protect his own, or would he have shared it, like T’Challa? Hard to tell. Doesn’t matter, anyway. Nothing does now, not really.  
   
“That’s not true,” Peter says. He’s propped up against the wall, one arm slung over his leg. “Mr Stark, you shouldn’t think like that.”  
   
Tony ignores him. He’s learnt to ignore all of them. He hears Natasha say something, and Bruce choke. He hates them, suddenly. Hates that they still have each other, that he’s had to lose everything.  
   
“You haven’t lost everything,” Peter says, shuffling forward. “Strange said this was endgame. There’s hope. And – “  
   
“Quit it, kid.” Tony’s had enough of his optimism tonight.  
   
Bruce and Natasha’s talk cuts out. Tony turns his head, and sees Thor staring at him, impassive. Disgruntled, Tony rolls onto his side and faces the wall.  
   
“I would have died anyway,” Peter whispers. “It’s not like you could stop it.”  
   
Tony covers his head with the blanket, pulls it up over his shoulders so his bare feet peek out the other end.  
   
“50% chance either way,” Peter reasons. “Even if I’d stayed on earth and gone on the fieldtrip, I’d still be dust – “  
   
_Peter,_ Tony thinks. _I love you, but you need to shut the fuck up._  
   
“Maybe we could have done better,” Peter concedes. “I don’t know, Mr Stark. Maybe – we could have got the gauntlet, I guess. But what then? Would you have had it? Because, no offence Mr Stark, but you’re probably not the best – “  
   
“Stop it,” Tony mutters, pressing his face into the thin pillow. “Go away.”  
   
“Go away? I can’t, Mr Stark. This is limbo now. I’m not even dead. I wish I was dead, though. It’s so cold here. I’m so lonely – “  
   
Tony covers his ear. “Shut up,” he whispers, hopes the others don’t hear, hopes he can just stop it, that when he looks up it’ll be a dream, it won’t be real. When Tony was a kid, he was afraid of the dark. He’d lie in bed, convince himself that there were monsters in the closet, and the only way he could be safe was if he covered his whole body with blanket.  
   
Sometimes he’d test the fear. He’d work himself up to, poke his head out, open his eyes and – and the room was always empty. There never were any monsters. Now, when he cracks open his eyes, Peter’s eye loom close in his vision; on his hands and knees, pressing his head to Tony’s as if to examine his face. He recoils, jerks, sits up and wraps his arms around his head.  
   
“Go away,” he wheezes, rocking. “Just go, go, go. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry – “  
   
Hand on his shoulder. Tony seizes. Thor is standing, hands by his head, non-threatening. “Apologies,” he says. “I thought we should talk.”  
   
Tony stares at him, swallows. He whips his head to the side; Peter is gone. Tony feels the brush of wind. He hears the sound of dust, across the tiled floor, swept out the window and evaporated into air.  
   
“We haven’t spoken,” Thor says, smile reassuring, almost friendly. “It has been awhile, Tony.”  
   
Tony nods, but he’s looking past his shoulder. “Yeah,” he agrees, “yeah, it’s been – too long.”  
   
Thor leans down, offers out his hand, which Tony takes. “I see them too,” he whispers, helping him stand.  
   
Tony stares at him, blinks. “What?” He croaks.  
   
Thor smiles again, his eyes wrinkle. “You must have had a bad dream,” he says, pointedly.  
   
“No. No I wasn’t sleeping – “  
   
“It was a bad dream,” Thor presses, inclining his head. “We have all had nightmares of late.”  
   
“If you can’t sleep, you should come and sit,” Natasha calls, patting her sleeping bag. “We’re talking.”  
   
“No, I – “ Tony tries to smile, easily, like Thor does. It turns out flat. “I don’t want to interrupt – “  
   
“You’re not interrupting anything,” Bruce insists. “Come. Sit. Eat. You look half-starved.”  
   
Tony wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. Maybe he hasn’t been eating so good, that’s true. The trip back with Nebula, all he had were the weird, green squids that turned his stomach. Here, all he’s had is soup. “I guess I could stand to eat,” he whispers.  
   
Thor claps him on the back, and Tony stumbles. Blanket wrapped around his shoulders, he follows like a ghost, settles on the edge of Bruce’s cot, as far from the rest of them as he can be. No one mentions it.  
   
“Stew,” Bruce says kindly. “I didn’t want to impose any more. The Wakandans have enough to deal with, but – I think it’s pretty good.” He and Natasha have set up camp together; a hotplate, a large pot, glasses, mugs, strange tea sachets that Tony can’t recognise. Aren’t they lucky together.  
   
“Thanks,” Tony says, hoarsely, inclining his head.  
   
“It’s hot,” Bruce warns him. They’re all watching him, uncomfortable. When Tony meets Bruce’s eyes, he smiles, sadly.  
   
“Sorry if – if I woke you up,” Tony starts. “I think – probably a bad dream – “  
   
“It’s alright, Tony,” Natasha says gently.  
   
“Where’s, uh. Rhodey.”  
   
“With Rocket and Nebula.”  
   
Tony accepts this. He doesn’t want to see Nebula now, her twitching lips, her dark pits for eyes. The stew is good, the meat tender, almost too spicy for his tastes. “Thor was just telling us what happened,” Bruce says, closing the lid on the pot. “He says Asgard is gone.”  
   
“Destroyed,” Thor says, with a blank smile. “But it was prophesied, it’s – a long story, my friends.”  
   
“You uh, talked to Jane recently?” Natasha asks, sipping from a spoon.  
   
“No,” Thor says shortly.  
   
“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean – “  
   
“It is alright. No use crying over spilt mead.”  
   
“Milk,” Tony says absently, pushing meat around the bowl, staring into space. “We say milk on Earth.”  
   
“Milk then. I should get used to it. I will be here for a while, I imagine. Well, if we live. Which I’m sure we will,” Thor brightens. Tony wonders how he does that, lifts people’s spirits. Maybe if Tony was 1,500 years old, he’d be the same. He claps Tony on the back, making him choke on his stew. “But I hear congratulations are in order!” He cries. “You’re engaged to be married. Marvellous.”  
   
Tony says nothing. There’s an awkward silence. Bruce mumbles, “she was dusted,” and Thor says ‘oh’, uncomfortable. “Yes. Of course. Well – yes.”  
   
Steve has stirred. He walks over, squeezes Natasha’s shoulder. “We eating?”  
   
“Here.” She passes him a bowl.  
   
“Thanks,” he says, gratefully. He sits next to her. “Hi, Tony,” he says quietly.  
   
“Hi,” Tony whispers.  
   
“This is weird, huh?” Bruce says, looking up. “Just us. Almost like – you know. Before.”  
   
_Before._ Tony remembers it. All that hope. Steve, with his gentle smiles and warm hands. He tips back his head, closes his eyes, luxuriates in the memory. _Before._  
   
“… not well,” he can barely hear Bruce’s words, murmured, inconsequential. “Talking to himself, don’t know if – “  
   
Someone gently takes the bowl from his hands. He feels himself being held, positioned. Someone takes his blanket, rests him horizontally, picks up his legs and presses them gently together, tucks him in. Faintly, Tony blinks, but the room is hazy; his friends blur in warm shades, browns and yellows, flickering fire. The someone presses a hand to his head, just once, comforting. He can hear them talking, but he’s still stuck in the Before, remembering, and being happy.  
   
_I don’t want to go._  
   
Tony jerks awake. He’s moaning; he’s still moaning when he wakes up, and for a few seconds he can’t work out who in the room is making the tortured, dog-in-pain sound. “No,” he croaks, swearing it. “I won’t let you go! I won’t let you – I won’t! I won’t!”  
   
“Shh,” Steve is saying, hands on his shoulders. “Down, breathe Tony, it’s alright – “  
   
“I’m sorry!” He cries out, frantic. “I’m sorry, Peter! I’m so sorry – “  
   
“Okay,” Steve tells him, simply. “Okay, you can be sorry. It’s alright.”  
   
He sits him up, tells him to breathe in and out. Tony shakes his head; he doesn’t want to breathe. He wants to hyperventilate until his lungs can’t contract or expand, until he’s wheezing, choking, gone –  
   
“You should wash your hands,” Peter says casually, kneeling on the cot, looking over Steve’s shoulder, “you don’t know how much of me is still there.”  
   
Tony lunges. “ _Leave me!”_ He screams, hands reaching to slap Peter away, but only hitting air. “ _You’re not him!_ You’re not _him!_ I _tried,_ I said I was _sorry,_ I couldn’t have stopped it – “  
   
Someone – not Steve – covers Tony’s eyes with their hand. “You’re right,” Bruce says roughly, “he’s not real, Tony. Just – close your eyes. You can’t see him, he’s not there.”  
   
Not true, Tony can hear him in his ears. Patterns of voices, overlaid, a chorus. " _It’s endgame now, Stark – "_  
  
_“ -- it had to be this way – “_  
  
_“ – you’re not the only one burdened with knowledge – “_  
  
_“ – mr stark, mr stark, sir i don’t want to – “                                               “ – it comes to either – “_  
  
_“ – i’m sorry – “                                                                   “ – tony – “       “ – steady now quill –“_  
   
                                     _“ – he did it – “                                                            “ – half of humanity will live, stark, you have my word – “_  
   
                                                                                                                                          “Tony.”  
   
                         _“ – fear it, run from it, fear it, run from it, fear it, run from it – “_  
_“ – tony get back here, get – back – get – here – “_  
   
“Tony!”  
   
_“ – i don’t want to die, oh please mr stark, i don’t want to die, i don’t want to – “_

“I tried!” Tony sobs. “I warned them! I warned them! I told them! I tried so long to make them understand – “  
   
_“Then you should have tried harder,”_ the dead tell him.  
   
Tony clamps his hands over his ears. He tells them to leave him alone, he’s sorry, and next time he’ll be better. He’ll fix, he always fixes it, just leave him alone. If they leave him alone he’ll bring them back, rewind the clock. “I’m sorry,” he says, rocking back and forth. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry – “  
   
“Look at me,” Steve says, hushed. “Tony, look at me. Just look at me.”  
   
Tony does. Steve’s hair is longer than it used to be. He likes it. He has a beard; that, he’s not too fond off. His eyes are the same shade of blue, and there’s a fresh cut just above his left brow, already healing.  
   
Tony tries to pull away, whimpering. Steve holds his head between his hands, forces him to look forward. “At me,” he says, calmly. “Don’t mind anyone else. Don’t mind what anyone else says.”  
   
… _fucking failure…douchebag, stark…why did you let us d – I’m sorry tony – ie…when he’s under, take the gauntlet…_  
  
“Shh, shh, shh,” Steve soothes, stroking his thumbs across Tony’s cheekbones, hands cradling Tony’s ears. “Look at me. Just look at me.”  
   
Tony can feel himself crying. His cheeks feel cold against the air. “I’m sorry,” he tells Steve, tipping his head against his palm. “I – I – “  
   
“What’s the harm?” Steve asks, gently. “You’re among friends. We’ve all suffered, we all – understand. You won’t be judged here.”  
   
“I can hear them, they – all of them, Peter and Strange and Quill – “  
   
“It isn’t real, Tony.”  
   
“What if it is?” He whispers, frantically. “What if they’re in my head? What if they’re all trapped, somewhere, and they’re trying to tell me – “  
   
“You? And not us? You don’t think I wouldn’t have Bucky telling me to get the fuck up off my ass and do something?” Steve smiles, sadly. “Or that Sam isn’t calling me an idiot?”  
   
“That’s different. You’re – you.”  
   
“You had a bad dream,” Steve says, lowly. “You’re exhausted, you’re still wounded. Tensions are running high, Tony. You’re not crazy. I would worry if you didn’t have any emotion at all.”  
   
“He’s right,” Peter says, sadly. “You shouldn’t get so worked up over me, Mr Stark.”  
   
“No, Tony,” Steve says firmly. “Keep your eyes here. Look at me. At me, that’s it. Just keep looking here, nowhere else.”  
   
Someone holds a glass of water in his line of vision. Natasha. “Here,” she says, “you should drink.”  
   
Tony does. Steve puts his hands back on his head, but more gently this time. “There,” he says, softly. “Just keep looking at me.”  
   
“I left a part of me up there,” Tony tells him, croaking. “I knew it would be a one-way trip.”  
   
“Said that last time, too. But you came out of the wormhole just fine.”  
   
Despite himself, Tony snorts. “I left a bit of myself in that wormhole, too.”  
   
“Come here,” Steve sighs. He pulls Tony forward, and Tony goes willingly, rests his brow in the crook of Steve’s neck. “You’re alright, Tony.”  
   
He’s not alright. It’s not alright. Nothing is _alright._ But as his pulse starts to slow, he becomes embarrassed at his outburst. He wishes he could take it back.  
   
“I hear them too,” Thor says, assuredly, calmly, quietly. “I think – perhaps, it is some kind of cruel jape. Or that Loki sends himself from beyond the grave to taunt me. But he does not. I am… the victim of an over-productive imagination.”  
   
“Yeah,” Bruce says out the side of his mouth, “or whatever they call PTSD on Asgard.”  
   
Tony sits up abruptly, wiping his tears. “What would you do?” He asks, drying his face on the hem of his shirt. “C’mon, tell me. If you had the gauntlet, what would do?”  
   
A silence. Natasha starts. “Honestly? I’m selfish, Tony. I’d go back to the start. All the way to start. I’d – make sure the Soviet Union never existed.”  
   
“I’d major in philosophy, not biochemistry,” Bruce says, doleful.  
   
“I’d – hell, I don’t know,” Steve says, blowing air. “I’d do something, I guess. Combine the timelines. I’d save Bucky, I’d – stop you from ever going through the wormhole. I don’t know. I don’t think I could handle it.”  
   
“I wouldn’t change a thing,” Thor announces.  
   
“Not a thing?” Tony asks, sceptically.  
   
“Things ebb and flow. People – come and go. We suffer greatly, and we’re made better for it.”  
   
“Thor…” Steve says, warningly.  
   
“There is no one here,” Thor says, simply, “who would not be corrupted by that gauntlet. It ruins. I will destroy it, as well as any man that wears it. It brings no good into the world.”  
   
A beat. “I’d probably just – go back,” Tony admits. “I only need the time stone. Go all the way back to the beginning of it all. Stop the stones from ever existing.”  
   
“And how would you do that?” Natasha asks.  
   
“I don’t know. Somehow.”  
   
“But that would change everything,” Steve says. “No stones means – no Red Skull, not really. I wouldn’t have crashed. And New York wouldn’t have happened. There would be no team, Bucky never would have – “  
   
“I know,” Tony says. “It’s better that way.”  
   
“You would – write yourself out of existence.”  
   
“Maybe it’s better that way, too,” Tony tells him, darkly.  
   
“Enough,” Bruce says, abruptly. “That kind of talk – it doesn’t do anyone any kind of favours. Just forget it.”  
   
“I’m – sorry. For my little breakdown.”  
   
“Don’t sweat it,” Natasha tells him. “We’ve all been there.”  
   
“Right,” Tony says, weakly. He stares past Natasha’s head. Peter waves.  
   
Steve wraps his arms around Tony shoulders, let’s him rest his head against his chest. Like the old times, like how they would watch TV together, old black and white films. Are they just pretending, now? Like they’re the last people left on earth, and so they’re together by necessity? Or is it just comfort, like pulling on an old sweater. Pepper is gone. Bucky is gone.  
   
They’re all they have left. That, and each other.

**Author's Note:**

> if you enjoyed, let me know! if u have any other prompts, also let me know here, or on my tumblr: writingromanoff.tumblr.com


End file.
